


Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hint of Angst, Look it's the Silmarillion, Snow, The angst always sneaks in around the corners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28271727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: From a tactical standpoint, Maedhros thinks the snowfall at Amon Ereb is a good thing.The twins agree with him, but for very different reasons.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maedhros | Maitimo, Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 29
Kudos: 146
Collections: Lord of the Rings Secret Santa 2020





	Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking) in the [LotR_SeSa_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LotR_SeSa_2020) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> I would just love some Kidnap Dads fluff! Maybe something wintry, for the holiday theme?
> 
> Please no bad parenting, even in reference. (This applies to Earendil and Elwing, but also to Feanor if you're having M&M recalling their childhood.) If you had some past/background Maedhros/Fingon, Maglor/wife, or Maglor/Daeron, that would be fine, but please keep the story gen.
> 
> I hope this is what you were looking for!
> 
> I would like to thank Calvin and Hobbes for inspiring the snowmen. If anyone wants to see some examples, you can find them here: http://funnybizblog.com/funny-stuff/calvin-hobbes-snowman-cartoons.

The snow had fallen in deep drifts, and Maedhros was glad of it. The long winter nights were a boon to Morgoth’s forces, but even the dark Vala’s armies would struggle to march through snow this deep. For now Amon Ereb was safe, or as safe as this last fortress could ever be.

That was his first thought, at least, when he glanced out one of the narrow windows just broad enough to shoot an arrow through if it ever came to it - and that, coincidentally, was just broad enough for him to get a glimpse of pristine white snow filling the courtyard.

When he actually walked down to said courtyard so that he could cross over to the battlements and get a better idea of how last night’s quiet storm had transformed the lay of the land, however - that was a different story.

For one startled moment, when he emerged into the blinding whiteness of the courtyard, he thought that he had been wrong about Morgoth’s forces’ ability to trek through the snow after all, and his hand flew to his ever present sword even as a warning shout grew in his throat. If the warning bells were not ringing, than the sentries must already be fallen, but he had passed and nodded at other early morning risers as he strode through the fortress - it was not yet too late to save at least some -

His eyes adjusted, and the moment of blind terror passed. It was not an actual dragon before him after all, just as those were not actual orcs. Just sculptures of patted snow.

Admittedly, very, very impressive sculptures of snow, far surpassing the simple creatures that he remembered the rare children of Himring once making. The whole courtyard was filled with them: a roaring dragon facing down two scowling opponents armed with - were those actual spears? Maedhros had concerns - orcs staring down in confusion at massive holes ripped through their snowy bodies, giant snow spiders harnessed and ridden by tiny snowmen . . .

It was impressive. And judging by the quiet giggling he heard from behind the dragon, he knew exactly who to blame.

“Good morning, brother!”

. . . Or maybe not.

He turned warily to see Maglor perched atop one of the snow spiders, his cheeks red with the cold. How long had he been out here?

“Exactly how much of this do I have you to blame for?” he asked warily as he approached. He knew it certainly wasn’t all of it. There were footprints in the snow - lighter than men’s would be, but definitely deeper than an elf’s light tread - and, even more tellingly, the footprints were small.

But Maglor definitely had something to do with it.

Maglor hopped to his feet and gave a sweeping performer’s bow. “All of it! None of it! The precise right amount to ease your grip on that sword, really, whatever amount that might be.”

Oh. He was still holding it, wasn’t he? He eased his white knuckled grip and took a deep breath of the frosted air. “It . . . startled me,” he admitted softly. He could admit to weakness in front of Maglor. His brother had seen him in much worse straits and followed him this far anyway; an admission of surprise was unlikely to change anything now. “The dragon . . . “ He’d thought it was another Dagor Bragollach, come to end them with ice instead of fire.

Maglor’s smiled softened. “Nothing so dire,” he promised, leaping gracefully from the sculpture’s back. A faint shower of snow was knocked to the ground. “The wind woke the children last night, and they decided they couldn’t possibly wait to experience their first snow.”

Maedhros startled a little at that. Was it their first? Thinking back over previous winters, he supposed it must be. He had become so used to it in the long years at Himring that it had become commonplace, only one more logistical detail to consider.

“And of course you couldn’t let them come out here alone,” he concluded.

“In the middle of a snowstorm? Of course not.” Elves bore cold better than men, and elvish children, properly garbed, would have been fine. Peredhel children . . . well, evidently, with supervision, they too had been fine.

Maedhros surveyed the battle scene again. “Which brings us back to the start: how much of this was your doing, exactly?”

Maglor waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, sculpture was never my medium. You know that.”

“No,” Maedhros said dryly, “but I’ve seen what your songs can do, don’t forget.”

“I might have helped a little,” Maglor conceded. “Particularly with the dragon since I’ve seen one before and they haven’t. The inspiration, however, was all their’s, and they needed less help than you might think. They have a particular affinity with water, you know, and that’s all snow really is.”

The twins did have an affinity with water, presumably from Ulmo’s favoring of their father’s family. Combined with Luthien’s side of the family . . . 

Maedhros became much less skeptical.

“They did a very good job,” he said, and the chorus of giggles came again.

Maglor’s smile became its most genuine yet. “And so the family tradition of artistry continues.”

It did. But.

In a much lower voice, he asked, “Do you think we should be concerned about the scene?”

It was - violent. Not dreadfully so. But. Still.

Even in children’s play, there was so little evidence left of peace.

The warm weight of Maglor’s arm around his shoulder shook him from his grim thoughts. “Maybe,” his brother said, his voice barely a breath on the air. Slightly louder, he said, “On the other hand, imagine what Celegorm would have done at this age if he’d had access to this much snow.”

There was snow in Valinor but mainly in the heights of the mountains, where it was another sign of grandeur, far too difficult to reach to be a child’s plaything.

And Maglor was absolutely right about what Celegorm would have done with it.

“Or Fingon,” he said quietly, allowing a smile without quite meaning to. “He would have wanted to make a legion of snow monsters that he could fight.”

Maglor threw him a slightly startled look before returning the smile. “Exactly,” he said.

Two tiny heads popped up behind the dragon’s back at last. “Do you like it?” Elros called hopefully. “It’s the Dagger Bragger!”

Maedhros blinked.

“Dagger Braggereth!” Elrond corrected, which was still not quite right, but was at least close enough for him to get the point. “Just like in the bedtime stories!”

Maglor coughed beside him. “Heavily edited bedtime stories,” he emphasized.

“Dagor Bragollach was the first thing I thought of when I saw it,” Maedhros told the children, entirely truthfully.

The children cheered. Maglor winced.

Maedhros relented. “You know, I saw a few dragons myself in that battle,” he said. “Why don’t I tell you about them while we get something warm to eat inside?”

The children’s eyes went wide.

“You can tell stories?” Elrond demanded in an awed voice.

“I can,” Maedhros said solemnly. “One of my younger brothers even told me once that I was rather good at it.”

The children looked at each other. Then, as one, they came sliding down the dragon’s back and rushing over.

Maglor was giving him a strange, hopeful smile, and Maedhros didn’t want to think too deeply about why. It was a good day, a safe day. That was enough.

Elrond locked onto Maglor’s leg as soon as he reached them, but Elros latched onto Maedhros’s hand and looked up at him hopefully.

It had been such a long time since a small hand had slipped into his own.

He squeezed it gently, like the precious gift it was, and as he led them inside he said, “Once, long ago, when the world was younger than it is now, but not that much younger, the quiet of the night was interrupted by a very loud roar . . . “

**Author's Note:**

> *Edit* 
> 
> The original version of this story referenced "Dagor Dagorath" when what I actually meant was "Dagor Bragollach." All references have since been changed.


End file.
